Catharsis
by Atropos' Knife
Summary: Pre-canon, series of one-shots revolving around a theme. They say there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. For Kudo Himiko, there is only one... Revenge.
1. Denial

_**Catharsis**_

**_Disclaimer :_** "GetBackers" and characters are the property of their respective owners. Standard copyrights and trademarks apply.

**A/N: **An idea that came to me while listening to Poe's "Angry Johnny" on Valentine's Day (First line of the stanza, _"I wanna kill you, I wanna blow you - away."_ Right. Don't ask. :D ). A series of Himiko-centric one-shots revolving around the generally-accepted, but now contested **"Five Stages of Grief"** by psychologist Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. A better writer than I could probably condense this whole idea into just one one-shot, so I apologize for writing another rambling fic. Oh well, hope it works out just the same. Enjoy. : )

* * *

_"Be careful how you touch her,  
__for she'll awaken  
__and sleep's the only freedom that she knows  
__and when you walk into her eyes, you won't believe  
__the way she's always paying  
__for a debt she never owes  
__and a silent wind still blows that only she can hear  
__and so she goes…"_

from "_Wildflower" _by_ Skylark_

**-o-**

"_Happy Birthday to you… Happy Birthday to you…"_

Kudo Himiko sang in a cracked, high-pitched trill that, nonetheless, pealed with the confidence and clarity of one in the bloom of puberty. But little did the thirteen-year-old know that such a banal, ubiquitous melody would never pass through her lips again.

Not when, ironically, the celebratory ditty had unwittingly become a funerary dirge.

The seconds ticked down for every step Himiko made towards the strangely quiet living room – precious seconds left before innocence, her life, was prematurely snatched away; in – some would claim – karmic justice for having been a snatcher herself.

Himiko walked deliberately, balancing a cake in her hands with the care of a nurse presenting a mother with her newborn child. In the orange flicker of twenty-eight burning birthday candles, her face beamed with a last glow of youth, not realizing such child-like happiness would grace her features nevermore.

Two, three steps… Soon, Himiko was to enter a dimension where time stopped, to be sucked in and captured forever in a cell of her memory that had been set aside for just this moment, reserved long before she was even born; a space-time sealed within four walls now haunted by the doom of her brother, Kudo Yamato…

… and the sin of one Mido Ban.

She crossed, and _freeze … _the only movement being that of the cake dropping and breaking apart on the wood plank floor. In one slow blink, Himiko's view fogged over with gray; blurry and smudged like charcoal paintings of raving madmen pervaded by splotches of the most vivid red - and two striking pin-pricks of blue.

It was a blue that belonged to a stranger; glazed in tears, dull with confusion, and full of guilty fright. They were not the proud, brilliant oceans the girl had drowned herself in with admiration (too young to realize she drowned because of something else), but fathomless pits empty of mercy, devoid of soul.

Himiko had never seen so shocking a paradox, of eyes that pitiful gazing at her in immeasurable sadness together with a hand so brutal it was gloved thick with blood.

Eyes and hands possessed by a boy she thought she could love…

as much as her brother…

who he just murdered….

for a reason she would kill to know…

Or rather, to know would kill her.

Either way, on that day of Kudo Yamato's portentous birth, Kudo Himiko died as well.

Then came the awful screams, screams like those of mythical creatures; as grievous as the wailing of banshees heralding Yamato's passing; as terrible as a siren's song calling for Mido Ban's death.

Wordlessly, the killer ran, not once meeting Himiko's shell-shocked stare; blowing past her like a typhoon too swift to leave a fleeting apology and too slow to be an unexplained remembrance. As a final insult, the gust of his flight extinguished the last defiant candle flames still burning on Yamato's ruined cake.

And with that, Mido Ban – former friend, brother, and partner – vanished out the door and into the snowy night.

**-o-**

_**Denial**_

"_Aniki_!" Himiko somehow managed to form a coherent word between the incessant shrieks. She staggered as far as her collapsing knees could take her; finally falling on all fours into a puddle of blood so deep it made a sickening splashing noise when she landed. The teenager crawled, slip-sliding the rest of the way to the limp form slouched against the living room wall; jeans soaking up her brother's fading warmth, hands coated in the remains of his drained life.

"_Aniki_… Stop playing… It's… not funny…" Himiko hoarsely whispered in the brokenly scared small voice she used in dire straits – and only with Yamato. She straddled his corpse and nudged his slumped shoulders. Surely, this was just some cruel, insensitive birthday trick they were playing on her. _Yes. A gross joke_, she thought over and over again like a mantra, desperately wanting to believe her cool, calculating, and mature brother was capable of such juvenile pranks. Twenty-eight or not, boys will be boys, right? Right?

But the jagged, gaping hole in Yamato's chest was all too real, as was the congealing sea of red around him; and soon, Himiko's disbelief gave way to defense. She frantically searched his bandolier of vials and her own pockets for their tools of survival. _Flame, Retrogression, Corrosion, Acceleration…_ The girl's eyes gawked hopelessly at the poisons in her blood-slicked hands, at last letting them slide into the sticky spill below upon learning the ironic truth. To her abject horror, out of the two hundred odd potions and palliatives the Kudo siblings had concocted through their art of alchemy…

Not one was an elixir of life.

Himiko held Yamato's ghostly face in her palms, smearing his cold cheeks in rouge. "Why? I don't understand. Tell me what to do…" she demanded, voice straining against the heaviness that was building in her diaphragm like an expanding balloon inside her that refused to pop. It began crushing her internally, yet she allowed herself no release; a case of pragmatism winning over emotion as Himiko scanned her brother's death mask for an explanation.

But she saw no peace in his passing; only pain and resignation; and oddly, a grim twist of his lips that could only be construed as relief.

Relief. It would be years before she found out what that meant.

Himiko floated her fingers above Yamato's closed eyes, considered searching into them for answers. Belief still held of images in the last second of life being imprinted into the retinas like a snapshot at the moment of death. But Himiko balked instantly. Not at the absurdity of such old wives' tales, but at the fact she knew exactly what she would see – that of the traitorous face of a demon reflecting back at her.

It was all the answer she would get.

And all the reason she needed.

"I won't let it end here," Himiko swore as she planted a final kiss on her _aniki's_ forehead. "I promise."

Two promises made to Yamato by two people whom he loved more than himself - one to kill, the other to protect. Somewhere, Yamato's spirit cried forgiveness from his little sister.

As far as promises were concerned, he was going to side with his killer on this.

**-o-**

The deep woods fell silent as if in sad lament for the young girl dragging the heavy blanket-covered body through its labyrinth. Himiko's exerted breaths created miniature fog clouds that dissipated and re-formed in a continuous cycle, making it difficult for her to spot a burial place in the heart of the forest, in the dead of night, with only the moon for company.

In a way, she was grateful for the struggle; kept her from breaking down, curling up and bawling in the middle of nowhere. Himiko paused for a brief rest by leaning on the long-handled shovel she used as a walking stick. Turning to look back at the path she cut through the woods, the girl discovered Yamato's blood had seeped through the shroud and stained the pristine powder of the snow.

Himiko trudged further into the thicket feeling as though she and her brother had been magically, dreadfully transported into a tragic re-telling of _'Hansel and Gretel'_, with grisly specks of bright crimson marking their forest trail instead of breadcrumbs; where the witch had gotten away, and where Himiko would have to make the trek back home (what home?) alone.

However, the moon was sympathetic to the plight of one of her daughters as she lit the young girl's way and cast a broad, luminous beam that filtered through the naked, frost-covered boughs. Amidst the copse of winter-hibernating trees, the scattering of white light converged on the snowy bark of a single aspen tree – gloriously pure, proud and shining in the bleakness of Yamato's hidden cemetery.

A solitary tear streaked down Himiko's cheek as she gasped at the vast symbolism of this, her brother's temporary resting place. The youngster was well-versed in the language of plants and trees, knew their curative and poisonous properties as well as their lore. She knew the aspen would protect Yamato's spirit from further attacks of dark forces, but at the same time, when spring came and his withering body began to feed it with life, the tree's leaves would tremble violently over the man's grave with anguish and guilt.

Himiko silently cursed Mido Ban. Wherever he would run, wherever he thought he could hide; she hoped the son of a bitch would feel exactly the same way.

The tears trickled steadily now as Himiko cleared a rectangular patch of snow beneath the tree. When brown earth was revealed, she burrowed the shovel in and broke only a fistful of dirt. With an involuntary despondent whimper, she heaved and dug and prodded, scooping merely clump after clump of soil each time.

With a blood-curdling scream, Himiko sank to her knees and clawed at the hard, frozen ground with her tiny fingers until the sharp grains started slicing under her nails.

"For God's sake! Let me bury him at least! Please!" she shrieked to the heavens, whence her fragile body quaked and finally burst open with the most desolate of sobs; sobs that belonged to old men and women grieving over a lifetime of waste and regret, not thirteen-year-olds brimming with a lifetime of promise.

Himiko cried the whole night as she painfully excavated the shallow grave where Yamato would lie, her wailing muffled by the grayish-blue hued white womb of the forest. Never did she realize someone else could hear her sorrow – running to neverwhere, coatless, shivering and wracked with sobs just as she was.

But how was she to know? Know his misery? The truth?

**-o-**

At the break of sunrise, with tears all spent, Himiko leveled her brother's tomb with a last dusting of earth. That done, she wearily tossed the shovel away and stared at her splintered, bloodied hands. Slumping to the ground, the girl pressed her palms into the snow to cool the sting of her wounds.

_No matter,_ she thought. Her hands would heal soon, but her soul would not. Himiko looked up at the red dawn that peeked above the tops of the trees and shone brilliantly against the dusk of her salt-crusted, grime-stained face. She closed her eyes to the light and breathed in the clean, crisp air, spiked, she swore, with the coppery tang of an unforgivable sin.

Because unlike hers, Mido Ban's hands would be soaked in blood forever, never to be washed or scrubbed away; Yamato's blood that had bathed his skin, seeped into his pores and coursed straight into his soul.

Blood that was his blood, too.

And Himiko could smell it, wafting towards her like the scent of injured prey tempting a predator to the hunt. She turned her head, towards the biting Siberian wind-chill coming from the west. _No._

She then shifted back to where the heat warmed her cheeks. She sniffed. Himiko froze. She inhaled again. _Yes_. South. South-east. Into the city…

In the direction of the rising sun.

_Think a damned, accursed bastard such as yourself can find hope and salvation there?_ She sneered to herself.

When Himiko opened her eyes, a raging fire blazed in their dark, indigo depths and a seething vengeance rushed in her throbbing veins. Ironically, in her brother's death, she never felt so alive. With feverish determination and resolve, the girl crawled over to Yamato's grave and lay prostrate over it as if in final embrace.

"You're still alive, _aniki_," Himiko murmured eerily, her ear to the ground. "As long as _he_ lives, you still live to haunt him, and I, to chase him…"

She smiled, her face briefly reflecting pure evil. "I promise you, Mido Ban's death will be our bestest birthday present ever."

**-o-**

Next installment: **_Anger_**

**-o-**

* * *

**_A/N2:_** _"Wildflower"_ by _Skylark_. Lyrics are the property of their respective authors, artists, and labels. All lyrics provided are for entertainment purposes and personal use only.

The aspen tree is also known as the 'quaking aspen' for its leaves' propensity to shake at the slightest breeze. Its symbolism is rooted heavily in both Christian and Celtic lore. Legend has it that Jesus' cross was made from aspen and Judas was supposed to have hanged himself from this tree. Having been used this way, the aspen was doomed to constant trembling from guilt and sorrow.


	2. Anger

**"Catharsis"**

**_Disclaimer :_** Don't own. Don't intend to. Don't sue.

o-

_**Anger**_

Inside a grungy bathroom stall Himiko stood still and faced the graffiti-laden door. Idly, she tried reading some of the lewd haikus and lovesick odes no doubt scrawled in the throes of constipation – of the heart or otherwise. Dejectedly, she realized she could hardly understand half the innuendoes implied in the grossly mixed metaphors and the countless slang for parts of the human anatomy.

"Darling, this one goes to my sister tonight, okay?" the painted lady in four-inch stilettos and teased copper-streaked hair reminded Himiko as she stashed a cash-filled envelope into the girl's backpack. "Says she needs to buy meat for a barbecue tomorrow night. Yeah, right. 'Way to a man's heart is through his stomach' my ass. Like that'll keep her jerk-off husband from screwing that hussy next door."

"No problem," Himiko replied as she turned around to face the hostess who towered over her. She stared into the woman's weary kohl-lined eyes and wordlessly sealed their contract.

"Good." With her fake crimson fingernail, the hostess tucked a few stray strands of Himiko's hair that had escaped back under the rim of her baseball cap. She clucked her tongue. "Tsk. It's a shame you have to hide this pretty face behind a hat. But I guess it's for your own good." She sighed and opened the stall door to let the teenager out and watched her head out of the restroom.

"Himiko-chan…"

She peeked her head back in.

"You be careful, all right? It's a full moon out. Lots of werewolves on the prowl, if you know what I mean," the woman pointed out as she adjusted her dipping tube top. Himiko nodded, thanked her with a weak smile and left.

_Breathe, girl, breathe…_ she repeated to herself, trying to remain nonchalant and unaffected as she shuffled through the red-lit corridor. As much as she wanted to sprint out of there as fast as her legs could take her, doing so would only call attention to herself and Himiko felt she was conspicuous enough already what with her practically being the only one on that floor who didn't either have her pants around her ankles or had her top rudely pulled above breasts.

Maneuvering within that bar / nightclub / house of ill repute, Himiko at least found opportunity to practice the controlled breathing techniques Yamato had taught her. She filtered out the intermingling stench of sweat, tobacco smoke, cannabis fumes, cheap cologne, and other smells her virgin nostrils had yet to be familiar with and wondered if other fourteen-year-old girls in Japan such as herself ventured into these modern-day Sodom and Gomorrahs willingly or if they had any choice in it at all like she did.

Then, Himiko passed the wide open door of a euphemistically called 'private karaoke room' and glimpsed sight of a thin, pig-tailed girl no older than she kneeling with her head buried in the lap of a pruney old salaryman five times her age. Himiko couldn't have gotten a more blunt answer to her question than that. Contorting her face, she turned away in disgust. It suddenly dawned on her how it could've been she who was having her dignity crammed down her throat had circumstances been a whole lot different in this, a sleazy sweepstakes lottery of hapless teenagers struggling to survive.

Was life's luck of the draw simply attributed to chance? Choice? Skill? Degree of desperation? Or a little of everything? Himiko considered her situation, she who earned her living through sharp wits and the deadly - and very useful - art that was her inheritance. Pity the poor girls (and boys) who could only count on having a strong gag reflex as a marketable talent.

Himiko chose not to think about it any further as she quickened her pace towards the fire exit. She pushed the door open and once outside, deeply inhaled clean air, as clean an air she could possibly get from downtown Osaka anyway.

Satisfied she had re-filled her lungs with fresh oxygen, Himiko carefully made her way down the metal telescoping escape ladder and into the dark, narrow alleyway backing the row of seedy cookie-cutter hostess bars that stood side-by-side each other; a dozen gaudy doors promising the decadent pleasures of heaven, yet all leading to just one hell.

The young girl still found it hard to believe how she had managed to wallow herself in these dregs of profligacy in the aftermath of Yamato's death. With the last of the cash her brother had saved up, Himiko criss-crossed the whole island of Honshu in the weeks that followed trying to track down the bastard-murderer who was the cause of her adversity; finally losing his trail when she ran out of luck and money. But by then, it had seemed she had taken every highway, train track, ferry crossing, dirt road, and mountain pass there was in Honshu; knew them like the back of her hand. Knowledge, she would one day find out, that cemented her legendary renown as one of the best transporters in the country.

Broke, alone, and with no home to return to, Himiko refused to bow to the indignity of picking pockets or resorting to un-contracted theft. Instead, she hitchhiked her way to her brother's old stomping grounds, carrying on his legacy and trying to re-connect with his former clients.

Unsurprisingly, they shrugged off her sob story and laughed at the fourteen-year-old's attempts at playing with the big boys. Whatever crocodile tears they shed for the demise of a competent _ubaiya_ such as Yamato was, apparently, matched by their total lack of sympathy for the little orphaned sister he left behind.

And so the same scenario replayed from prefecture to prefecture, from city to city – Kobe, Yokohama, Nagano, Kyoto, Akita, Hiroshima – facing typical arbitrary prejudice against her age, inexperience and gender each and every time. Himiko didn't even dare go back to Tokyo on her own yet where competition was, literally, cutthroat.

Five months since burying her _aniki_, Himiko arrived in Osaka, the Kudo siblings' last base of operations before their fateful hook-up with Mido Ban. Though she had met with the usual off-handed dismissal from former big-time customers, Himiko did manage to find warm, understanding souls in the motley crew of bar girls, dancers, and prostitutes who plied the party district of _Shinsaibashi._ The girls remembered Yamato fondly, the roguish charmer who rode up in his can't-miss sky blue Cadillac convertible while his precocious squirt of a sister sat in the passenger's seat patiently waiting for him to finish 'conducting business'. She'd always remembered him coming back to the car with a big smile on his face and with his clothes slightly rumpled. In hindsight, Himiko was loath to imagine just _how_ fond of Yamato they were, and he of them.

But it made no difference to her now as these women treated Himiko with an equal (if considerably less physical) amount of affection like they used to have for her brother. For she was their little courier angel; sneakily flitting from club to club smuggling a couple of tips here or an extra trick there away from the grubby paws of the hostess's and whores' boyfriends, pimps and Yakuza protectors. Night after night, Himiko would traverse the city dropping off envelopes of cash into private mailboxes and rented lockers, or delivering them to the doorsteps of grateful relatives. In return for her services, she received a thousand yen commission per delivery and a roof over her head.

Himiko had to admit, it was pretty decent work for someone her age. For the first time in months, she was passably content and had even stopped crying herself to sleep at night. And boarding with the mostly foreign bar girls in their ramshackle flats even had its benefits as well. Aside from picking up a smattering of conversational Mandarin, English, and Russian; watching these hardened girls act and survive and fight back girded her own spirit and toughened her sense of self-reliance.

The teenager learned not to begrudge the way of life they led because she, like them, belonged to a sorority that merely lived by the right and wrong choices they made. Choices almost certainly influenced by the stupidity, cruelty, or misfortune of the men in their lives. Himiko neither faulted her friends nor herself for that. It was simply an unfair consequence of being labeled as part of the weaker sex.

From then on, she would look back dearly at the Shinsaibashi women whenever she dealt with a female client or foe. For it didn't matter whether they wanted to kill her or hire her – Himiko would always empathize and understand where they were coming from.

**-o-**

Himiko casually snuck out of the back alley and into a single-lane promenade along the banks of one of Osaka's many canals and waterways. Setting her skateboard down, she pushed off and coasted the strip of neon-lighted gay bars and fetish clubs, barreling past crowds of carousing patrons and drunken loiterers. Himiko was relatively unconcerned about her safety as she traveled the rough area alone. Dressed in baggy jeans, an oversized football shirt and a baseball cap, she appeared as nothing more than a pesky skater boy doing his annoying rounds on the city block.

The androgynous-looking girl mentally calculated her take for the evening and figured just a few hundred thousand yen more and she'd be able to go home to Tokyo and purchase a more permanent resting place for Yamato that he deserved. Because unlike other children her age, money was not a means for Himiko to acquire the latest designer clothes and gadgets, but rather as a means to right a wrong – a very expensive wrong.

She thought only of this, always this. And in the one-track-mindedness of her payback fueled reverie, Himiko became careless.

Yamato once taught her that once a package was in hand, her focus should be on getting it to the recipient, nothing else. To divert attention to anything or anyone other than the objective was, at best, an unnecessary inconvenience; and at worst, an invitation to danger. But as Himiko skated among the hordes of dazed, directionless zombies lured into going somewhere yet actually, nowhere; she passed a gangly boy of sixteen or seventeen with choppy, layered dark brown locks and a devil-may-care swagger wearing a white drawstring funnel-necked shirt that looked familiar.

Too familiar.

Against Yamato's words of warning and her own better judgment, Himiko gazed over her shoulder at the boy who was lazily sauntering away, likely cruising for a fast buck since there were only two reasons why a lad strolled a street like this alone – both not legal. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have spared the leering skater a second glance, but…

In her rapt stare, Himiko accidentally crashed into a male couple who had their hands in each other's pants pockets. In the entangled ruckus and ranting that ensued, the object of her interest whirled around curiously towards the commotion and realized his paranoid sensation of eyes boring into him wasn't a figment of his imagination after all.

Brown eyes met violet-blue, and that was when Himiko knew she had been sorely mistaken. In more ways than one, as she was about to find out. For if there was anything worse than making eye contact with a suspicious stranger, it was to turn away abruptly; giving the impression that she was timid, or that she had something to hide, or both. Two life signs that appealed to the baser instincts of a human predator, something a place like Shinsaibashi hadn't a lack of.

And Himiko was aware this boy was one of them.

But scolding herself for the mistake would have to wait. First, she had to wriggle her way out of this situation she foolishly initiated as the miffed lovers picked themselves up without so much an offer to help her on her feet. Meanwhile, the young man skulked straight to Himiko's sprawled form, neither making an attempt to lend her a hand. Instead, he pressed his foot onto her skateboard and teasingly scooted it to and fro in front of her, holding it hostage. He bent over slightly and tried to catch her averted eyes.

"Oi. On this street, even staring's not free, man," the teenager derided in his heavy _Kansai-ben_ accent. "If you want a piece of me it's gonna cost you."

Himiko kept her silence as she slowly hoisted herself up. She cursed inwardly. Except for the same hair, clothes, and bluster, this boy looked nothing like Ban. Though handsome enough (for a right to walk on this boulevard of human commodities trading dealt in hard currency of good looks), he didn't have Ban's chiseled Eurasian prettiness nor the distinct aura of malevolence. Just an air of petty deviancy of the likes she shared ruthless space with but amidst whom she never mingled.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, brat! What the hell –" the kid growled then held his tongue as his eyes became keen to the messages communicated by the 'boy's' body language. After all, ogling was an ingrained, if crude, skill sine qua non to his very livelihood. While Himiko struggled to stand up, he noticed the subtle way her loose pants molded effortlessly against blooming hips; and how her shirt gathered around her ripening curves like static cling; and the oddly delicate grimace in her heart-shaped, dusky-complexioned face.

With a smirk and an intrigued raise of a brow, the ruffian stomped his foot on the tail of the skateboard whence it twirled neatly into his waiting hand. He could anticipate having a little fun with this tomboy tart. Tucking the board under his arm, the hoodlum proceeded to amble off.

"Have it your way then. You won't mind if I take this as a memento of our meeting, ne?"

Irritated, Himiko scampered after him. "Give that back, jerk!" she finally yelled.

He noted the flat intonation of her speech and wrinkled his nose disdainfully. "Oh, I see. So the silent treatment's 'coz a Kansai hick like me ain't good enough for a Kanto gal like you, huh?"

The young girl stopped in her tracks and stepped back slightly; surprised the youth immediately saw through her outfit. "No. I just don't talk to arrogant strangers such as yourself," she retorted.

"Then you shouldn't have 'admired' me so much," he laughed.

"Damn it! What do you want with that beat up skateboard anyway?" Himiko demanded impatiently as she resumed tailing him.

The boy rolled his eyes, thinking how naïve Himiko was if she really thought this was all about some stupid plaything. "Whoa… You're quite the sparkplug, aren't you?" He tossed a mocking challenge back at her. "Look, if you want your toy that bad, come and get it."

Angrily, and a little impulsively, Himiko mulled over her options. With a skateboard, she completed her delivery runs in only half the time it took to walk. Then again, she could suck it in for tonight and buy a new one the next day. On the other hand, Himiko hated to waste a couple of thousand yen when she was confident she could somehow get her personal mode of transportation back. And besides, she wasn't one to shirk away from a challenge – or a fight, especially when she already had this peculiar compulsion inside goading her into teaching this insolent boy-who-was-not-Ban a severe lesson in never taking away something that didn't belong to him. A hard, pummeling lesson.

The hell-bent teenager briefly considered making a scene. Except, she realized it wasn't likely any of the horny or stoned or half-dead creatures lurching on the street would pay heed to them; a pair of roughhousing, good-for-nothing punks whom they probably thought were doing the city a service by offing each other anyway.

No. Himiko decided she didn't need rescuing, didn't need a saviour other than what she knew best. _I can do this, _she convinced herself as she took a deep breath and matched the cheeky kid's step just a few meters behind. She would wait until he reached an area where pedestrian traffic was sparse before springing her Sleep Perfume on him.

Then, before they could turn a corner of the block, her target began to descend a flight of steps that led into a service tunnel underneath the pier of a stone canal bridge. Ostensibly, the short, narrow culvert was used to house the main breakers and switches for the block's street lampposts. More commonly, though, it was a free and secluded spot where rent boys and their johns too cheap to get a room could make a fast 'transaction'.

But such facts mattered to Himiko none as she blindly followed him down, thinking only of getting back what was hers. Fortunately, or not, as she as about to discover – the tunnel was unoccupied. The dank darkness should've rang a danger alert as loud as a flashing sign, but Himiko had committed herself far too deep to turn back now. In the middle of the gauntlet the boy suddenly halted, allowing Himiko to close the gap between them. Seeing her opportunity, she scoped back for her poisons. However, before fingertips could touch glass, she felt the dull, lumbering pain of her skateboard being smashed into her right side. With an astonished gasp, she clutched at her aching arm, after which the thug pounced, slamming Himiko front first into the wall. A knife was at her neck.

Now that her advantage had become a liability, the girl tried to keep calm and think. If only her left arm wasn't pinned against the concrete and the right restrained in her attacker's firm grip. She knew her only chance out of this was to buy time.

"Either you're some nymphomaniac Lolita or just plain dumb to want to follow me down here." With his blade, the young man gently swept loose strands of hair away from the fourteen-year-old's ear and whispered lasciviously into it.

"I just want my skateboard," Himiko mumbled and jerked her head as far away as possible. She tried to keep an even tone despite a mix of fear and rage stewing in her insides.

"Ah, but can your skateboard do this?" His free hand pushed the left side of her face into the wet wall while his tongue darted out and took a long lap at the opposite cheek. "_Maa,_ whatever you are, it'll still get you the same result chickie-han."

Himiko cringed, shuddered and suffocated a scream. She also suppressed an urge to cry, for letting her would-be assailant see tears would be an indication of submission, that she was giving up. And no way was she giving up. Not her chastity. Not the close to half-a-million yen in her backpack. Certainly not both. _Shit, this can't be happening,_ Himiko thought as horrible images flickered in her mind as if to brace herself to what could come.

She felt the slow trickle of river water dampening her face through the hairline fissures in the bridge's masonry. The youngster imagined it was the wall crying, shedding tears for those like her who couldn't. She wondered how many countless bodies had been roughly thrust upon its cold, craggy surface to be broken in like plastic dolls; her ear almost hearing the echo of past screams and moans of pleasure – and pain – reverberating in its cracks. This very tunnel that bore the silent imprint of hundreds of willing and unwilling victims in its stone encased memory and trapped their inhuman voices within its walls. Himiko began breathing heavy, ragged, infuriated breaths.

Her body and voice were _not_ going to be one of them, she swore.

Summoning every ounce of her strength, Himiko forcibly twisted herself beneath the boy's grasp; though the swiveling action unavoidably caused the tip of his weapon to graze her throat in a long curve, like half a necklace of blood. Ignoring the sting of the cut, she then violently brought her knee up to the kid's groin.

Together with a strange crumpling sound, Himiko heard him wheeze a sharp _oomph_. But to her chagrin, he recovered quickly, and next thing she knew, her hands had been rammed above her head; the straight edge of his switchblade sliding flirtatiously against the pulse-points of her wrists in precarious caress. She immediately froze in mid-struggle.

The two torched each other with furious glares. With his free hand, Himiko's captor salaciously groped his crotch and then lightly rapped his knuckles against the plastic of a baseball jockstrap. "Didn't expect that, did you?" He simpered. "A guy's gotta protect himself, see?" The young degenerate crept anxious spidery fingers between her legs. "Something I suppose you know nothing about."

Himiko sneered and vehemently spat onto his face, hitting him just below the eye.

"Bitch!" he yelled. With an open-faced palm, he viciously slapped her, sending Himiko flying sideways and ripping a gash in the corner of her mouth. Giving out a stunned shriek, she landed heavily on her arm, spraining it. But it also failed to cushion her head from hitting the pavement and she received a slight concussion as well.

The fallen girl made every effort to crawl away but was momentarily numbed. Despite the throbbing ache in her arm, she desperately reached below her waist for any of her poisons, secretly hoping she'd grab Flame or Corrosion; for Sleep, Time-Limited, or even Retrogression perfume wasn't going to be enough punishment for this bastard, she resolved.

Himiko lifted out the first vial she was able to filch out of its holster. Flame. _Good_, she muttered quietly as she agonizingly wrenched her hand to her mouth, popped off the stopper with her teeth and managed to swallow one breath before the aggressor came over and nudged her onto her back with his foot.

The bully knelt over Himiko as she vainly tried to kick at him, finally being subdued when he clamped her legs with his thighs and harshly wrested her arms under her back. She stifled a cry of pain as her right arm's ligaments tore further.

"Hey baby, it's better if you make this easy on yourself," he chided as he started to fumble with buckle, notch, button, and zipper. "You know what they say. When it's inevitable you might as well lie back and enjoy it," he laughed.

"Now, let's see just how much of a girl you really are under that disguise."

Himiko's head swayed, felt like it had been bludgeoned with a wrecking ball. But she was still alert and frightfully aware of the hand that was roaming across her chest and of knees prying her thighs apart. She only had one chance to do what she needed to do, and God help her, she was going to do it right.

Slackening her body underneath him and feigning docility, Himiko turned to face her would-be rapist. She licked her lips suggestively, held them slightly open and looked at him with smoky, half-lidded bedroom eyes. It was a little trick the hookers and call-girls claimed no man could ever resist.

They were right.

**-o-**

Dizzy and light-headed, Himiko fought tenaciously from drifting into a dead faint, resisting the impulse to let nothingness bear down on her consciousness. Doing so could probably offer a fleeting salve to her body and mind, but it would no doubt leave a permanent scar on her soul. And she had been scarred enough already.

It is said that of the six senses, smell and taste were the strongest in evoking remembrances of the past – the so-called 'memory senses'. Himiko currently found no cause to argue with this fact while this stranger's mouth grinded into hers. The second or two she had allowed him to have free rein of her seemed to have lasted an eternity. And in that never-ending moment, the fourteen-year-old tasted – mingling with the acrid spill of her own blood – the residue of low-grade menthol cigarettes, beer and, funnily enough, candy. Were it not for the dreadfulness of her quandary, she would've laughed. So much for this cocky punk to act like some macho man when he had yet to wean off the kiddie stuff; that when all was said and done he was nothing but a silly boy.

So much like Ban.

How she remembered him, that highly intelligent swizzle stick boasting his powers of illusion and a fist he charmingly nicknamed the 'Snake Bite'. But for such a gifted young lad, Ban had curiously fallen heavily under the spell of Yamato; idolized him, followed him so much so that he readily picked up on the older man's vices – when he really didn't want to. For Himiko noticed even as Ban started fleecing her brother's cigarettes and began guzzling the beer, he would sometimes gnaw on a candy bar to take away the aftertaste. He never realized she had always known this. Yet, for whatever reason, she was never compelled to tell.

But she reckoned Ban was far too addicted now to the anaesthetic effects of nicotine or alcohol to care about trivial things such as flavour. Besides, she was skeptical there was anything sweet enough in this world to ever eradicate the bitter taste of his irredeemable guilt.

_Yes, _Himiko seethed, pressure mounting in her head. Ban should swallow the guilt, the sin; swallow it whole with every fucking breath he took. And after it churned in his gut, she hoped he puked it out and tasted the vileness over and over; choked on it again and again until the acidic, bilious sludge ulcerated his flesh and ate at him from the inside out.

Because Ban had sinned not once, but twice; destroyed not one life, but two. Because of him, Yamato was dead and she was an orphan. Because of him, she was homeless and a wanderer. Because of him, she was forced to become an adult at thirteen. Because of him, she was begging at the feet of gangsters and whores.

And it was Ban's fault why she was prowling these debauched streets alone at night. Ban's fault her brother wasn't here to protect her. Ban's fault she was lying spread-eagled on a damp, dirty floor. Ban's fault she now had a rapist's tongue jammed rudely into her mouth.

Ban's fault that if only he'd played his cards right and didn't do his own jamming into Yamato's chest, who knows? It could've been his tongue in her mouth and not this stranger's.

His fault.

If Himiko had only one wish it was for she and her brother never to have met that son of a bitch.

But right now, she kind of wished it was Ban here instead so he could bear the brunt of her madness. _Wait, maybe he was here already._ She couldn't be sure as her mind spun deliriously within a place that hovered between dream and lucidity. Then, her eyes fluxed open and all she could see were twin pools of electric blue. Devil's eyes.

Himiko felt herself explode in paroxysms of anger, fear and self-preservation all coming together in a rapid burst of adrenalin. With her own blue eyes emblazoned with savage wrath, she met her assailant straight on. _You took aniki, but you won't take me, bastard! _

_Burn inside before you burn in hell!_

With the fury of a supernova, she screamed.

**-o-**

Just as he had started hooking his fingers into the waistband of Himiko's jeans, the boy heard her ear-splitting howl echo in the caverns of his mouth. But before he could break away from her it was too late. He felt what seemed like a storm of grit and hot gas chimney down his gullet as Himiko literally poured the fire of her rage into him. The guy clutched his throat, first experiencing how the soft tissues of his windpipe began to constrict and asphyxiate as he gasped desperately for air. Then came the searing pain of flames scorching his lungs, trying to burn their way out of his chest, hungry for oxygen. Kneeling up, he flashed Himiko a look of horror and bewilderment that was almost too pitiful to behold. After that, eyes rolled to the back of his head and he keeled over and started to convulse in shock.

Dazed, Himiko wiped her mouth vigourously with her sleeve and slowly got up. She crawled over to the writhing form next to her, cocked her head curiously and stared fascinated at his death throes. Silently, she brought down her tiny right fist onto his face. Then her left. Then her hands fanned out and she smacked him again. And again. And again. She thrashed his chest, wished she could punch a hole through it like the gushing wound gaping through her brother's crushed ribs.

"How does it feel to have your insides melting? Can you feel your blood boil?" Himiko hissed between wave after wave of blows. "Is it as hot as the blood that drenched your fucking hand, huh… _Ban_?

No answer. Eerily, the only sound that could be heard was the strangled, fading gasps of impending death.

Instantly, Himiko's mind snapped fully into consciousness. The moment his name escaped her lips, she ceased her attacks. Blinking, her senses gradually returned as precious seconds and colour quickly drained out of the boy under her. She climbed off of him. No, she wouldn't stoop to the level of killing someone who was down. Himiko was not a killer. _Not like Ban_. Unlike him, she knew and used mercy. Maybe this stupid prick deserved to die, but it would not be at her hands. That honor was reserved for Mido Ban and him alone.

She fished out her Antidote Perfume and dumped the whole lot into the dying boy's gagging airway. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, Himiko picked up her skateboard and ran, ran faster than she'd ever done before; out the opposite end of the tunnel and into the relative safety of Osaka's bright, open skies.

Just as she did when Himiko made her way through the forest, the moon lit her path once again as she raced along the banks of the river. She smiled upon her little daughter, proudly, it seemed. So grown-up for a witch of fourteen.

And the girl felt so, too, even though tears began to stream across her bruised, pretty face. She admitted she had never been so scared in her whole life. But that was the peril she knew she was bound to meet, thrust as she was into this wretched fate. And she survived. That was something.

Sniffling, Himiko brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. _Professionals don't cry,_ she reminded herself. Indeed not. They fought back. They got even. They got the job done no matter what obstacles were thrown in their way. Hopping on her skateboard, the courier relished the freedom of having the muggy Pacific wind once again cool her face as she crossed into the next street to make her first delivery.

Somehow, Himiko knew she could look the bar girls and prostitutes in the eye now, as if she'd passed some cruel initiation. When she returned to the boarding house, the girls would see her battle scars and immediately understand what she'd been through. Then they'd dress her wounds, offer her comfort and a cup of tea, and share their own nightmarish stories. Himiko could now claim kinship in this sisterhood of survivors. For despite the fact they peddled totally disparate services, in reality, she knew she was no different from these women at all.

They were victims of the same circumstances and the same society. And sometimes, being angry was necessary to live. Himiko never realized she had so much of it pent up in her ever since that day her _aniki_ died. And now that it had erupted and overflowed, she felt liberated at what strength, passion, and _power_ it had awakened in her.

Power of her own allure. Power of her skills and intelligence. Power over her destiny and life. Power over _others'_ destiny and life.

_So this is what revenge feels like._ Himiko allowed herself a tiny, satisfied smile.

It felt… good.

**-o-**

Next installment: **_Bargaining_**

**-o-**

**A/N :** A rather difficult story for me to write because of all the violence. But I imagine that for Himiko's character – fourteen, alone and wandering in city slums – it couldn't have been easy for her at all. Thus, I tried to portray her history as I would the very real situations faced by teenage runaways in a big city. It's nasty, but true. –shrug- Hope I didn't offend anyone. :)

Also, I didn't intend for this to be some sort of feminist manifesto. Though, I just realized I put this chapter up after International Women's Day. Hmm... :)

_Shinsaibashi -_ Osaka district comparable to Tokyo's Roppongi or Shibuya.

_Kansai-ben - _Osaka, Kobe and Kyoto dialect. Think Emishi's accent.

_Kanto _- region that includesTokyo. Kanto-ben speakers tend to consider Kansai-ben a bit rough, sort of like an American Southern or Brooklyn accent.

**_A Guy Named Goo :_** Thank you very much. Thought I'd do something different since most Himiko fics are either BanxHimiko or Transporter-centric. Actually, I might've bitten off more than I can chew since this series is turning out to be quite a challenge. They're all about Himiko facing these ghosts and personal demons as well as her own survival all by herself - and internal monologues are hard to do hehe. I really appreciate your kind words. Hope I didn't disappoint with this installment. Cheers!

**_Rabid Lola :_** More Tagalog words. My head. Is. Exploding. Just kidding, hehe :D Thanks for watching out for my stories. That's really flattering to know. Yes, dark and depressing indeed. Especially this story. Am considering taking a break from this series or else try to finish it ASAP lest I be tempted to jump off a bridge from all the angst. Hugs and kisses to you. Mwah!

**_Endless :_** You're welcome. I suppose they made Yamato that age because it seems more logical for a 15- year-old to take care of baby Himiko rather than say, a 10-year-old, right:) Oh, and thanks for putting up the rest of the Sims pics. Those two are really getting it on everywhere, hee! In fact, it has inspired my next GxN fic. Wait for it, ok:D

**_Limelie :_** Thanks! BTW, how do I access your summaries when they're finally up? Let me know, okay? Cheers:D

**_Mayumi-san :_** (Blush) You're much too kind. Glad you liked this Himiko series, too. Ahem, and I don't need to remind you again about your next fic… haha! Cheers, my friend!


End file.
